


Proper Forms

by Cheloya



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 09:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10806126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Imported, from 2007. "I never thought a few standards in the taxation department would ever get in the way of curry, did I?"





	Proper Forms

  
“Absolutely not,” said the angel in clipped tones, and Crowley deflated all over the counter. Aziraphale prodded at his shoulder sharply with the end of a biro; he was doing the preliminary work for his accounts, and the demon’s flair for the dramatic was crushing his receipt collection. “Really, my dear, don’t act as though this isn’t your fault to begin with.”  
  
“I never thought a few standards in the taxation department would ever get in the way of curry, did I?” Crowley replied in loud and wounded tones. “I’m not psychic. And if I am, it’s news to me. Anyway,” he added, on inspiration, “since it’s my fault, technically, you’d better thwart proper taxation and come out anyway, right? That’s logic.”  
  
Aziraphale regarded him narrowly for a moment over the top of small, gold-rimmed spectacles, and flapped his ledger once, pointedly, to straighten it out. Then he went back to his calculations without saying a word.  
  
Crowley made a noise of complete disgust, and flung himself backward into the space between the lounge chair and the coffee table. (The lounge, though old and patched with tartan, slid forward to catch him, obligingly.) Crowley lay on it with his suit and his hair in complete disarray, legs over the arm of the chair, arms over his face in obvious agony.  
  
“But angel, I’m so bored,” he lamented. Aziraphale’s chair squeaked on the wooden floor as he pushed it backward, and Crowley chanced a peek between his fingers only to see the angel looking distinctly disinterested in his plight.  
  
“Cry me a river,” Aziraphale murmured absently, “build me a bridge, my dear, and get over it.”  
  
Crowley made two indignant squawking sounds that would better have befitted chickens, and rolled onto his stomach, mumbling mutinously about not having taught the bloody angel sarcasm to have it thrown back in his face like that, what sort of behaviour was that for an angel anyway, ought to be ashamed of himself.  
  
Aziraphale bent to turn on his slow, plasticky computer, and adjusted his glasses thoughtfully as he watched the screen flicker into typical startup code. Watched a moment. Deliberated. And marked a few things very carefully on various pieces of paper.  
  
He leaned over the back of the couch, glasses dangling from his left hand, and smiled fondly as the demon stopped muttering again, waiting and hoping. After a suitable interval, the angel said, “Do you know, dear boy, these old computers take some time to shoe, so I think we might have time for curry after all.”  
  
Crowley wriggled; in one sinuous movement he was on his back giving Aziraphale a speculative look. And in another, he was on his feet, having decided to let an exasperated lecture on computer terminology slide.  
  
“Right,” he said briskly, and blinked. Held out a no-longer-disheveled arm. “The fascinating little restaurant where they know you, then?”  
  
Aziraphale pocketed his glasses, pulled a single key and accompanying key chain from a horribly kitsch little mug beside the cash register, and took Crowley’s arm genially. “The fascinating little restaurant where they know us,” he agreed lightly, and they left the plasticky little computer to do the hard bit.


End file.
